This summer, I took my first solo trip to Rome, and I instantly fell in love. With the city, that is. I felt like I had found my forever home—or, at the very least, a place I hoped to call home one day. I spent my days wandering the cobbled streets, suspended between meals at trattorias and seeing places I’d saved in my Notes app for years. I didn’t plan much, just went wherever I felt pulled. I’ve never felt so connected to a place, or so at peace being alone.

I’ve been single for over a year now, not looking, not waiting—just enjoying my own company. I’d eat alone, walk for hours, sit in gardens, people-watch. It was all I wanted. But still, in the back of my mind, floated that line from Meet Joe Black: “Stay open. Lightning might strike.”

After a few near-perfect days in the Eternal City, I hopped on a high-speed train north to Florence. As soon as I arrived, the energy shifted. The streets were crowded, the air felt tight, and I missed Rome immediately. 

“Stay open. Lightning might strike.”

So, I decided to make the most of my few days here. More methodically this time, I checked off the spots I wanted to see, saving the rooftop bar at my hotel for my last night, its terrace offering that quintessentially panoramic view of the city. 

The final evening arrived. I rode the creaky elevator to the top floor, feeling ready to leave the city. When the doors opened, I locked eyes with a bartender. A jolt of electricity rushed through me. Fuck, I thought. I felt weird, like I already knew him, even though I didn’t.

The bar was empty. I asked if I could sit outside—both for the view and to be away from his direct gaze. He said yes. I ordered a cocktail and nibbled on some pistachios, a few of which I fed to an interested chirping bird. The view was majestic, but my thoughts were elsewhere. 

As the sunset painted the sky orange, I finished my drink. With no more reason to linger, I went in to pay. He started to flirt. I did too. He poured me a limoncello shot—classic; it was strong, but good. I sipped slowly, and asked what time they closed, even though I already knew. 12 AM. I told him I’d come back before closing. 

Back in my room, I debated. Should I go back up? Should I stay? I mustered up the courage (that shot of limoncello helped). I sat at the bar this time. We talked until closing—about where we’re from, what we love, what we can’t stand. He made me every kind of drink. We joked that I couldn’t be a real Russian if I didn’t like vodka, and he couldn’t be a real Italian if he didn’t like olives. I asked if he had a girlfriend (no), and his coworker asked if I had a boyfriend (also no). So, I asked for his Instagram—and after they closed, the three of us went for drinks. 

It was a tiny bar down the street. We sat talking about love—how it’s not just romance, but moments like this one, being open, being there. It was simple and beautiful. After his coworker left, he walked me back to the hotel. I asked if I could kiss him, and he leaned in.

We wandered through Florence for another hour, kissing, sitting in quiet corners, talking about everything and nothing. No one else was around, just us. And finally, the city opened up to me. He told me my skin felt like his. I don’t know what that meant, but in that moment, I felt it too.

Earlier that day, I’d told a chef I met to “Have a beautiful life.” When I left the bartender, he said the same thing to me: “If I never see you again, I hope you have a beautiful life.”

I have a hard time letting go of things like that. I want to hold onto every detail, every feeling. Deep down, I knew we probably wouldn’t see each other again. But I told him we would. 

I flew home the next day. We kept in touch for a few weeks, and then he disappeared. Sometimes I still wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed. If I’d chosen Florence instead of flying back.

Even though that city didn’t feel like mine, I’m grateful for that night—for the reminder that magic still exists in small moments, that connection can happen anywhere, that you can fall in love with a person and a place in the same breath. Rome still calls to me, and I know I’ll go back. Maybe I’ll see him again, maybe not. But I’ll stay open. Lightning does, in fact, strike the same place twice.